Viktor

If I’m to share a bedroom with Peach—which we must, because palace staff always talks regardless of the palace—then I desperately need to reattach my head straight, because the last thing I need is to become attracted to my wife.

The bulge in my boxers would suggest I’ve already failed at my mission.

The country is in the midst of a financial crisis, the Parliament is incapable of reaching a compromise on anything—I daresay they’d take up a resolution to declare if dogs or cats made better pets, just to have something else to argue over—and I’ve at least twenty heads of state to meet within the next month, on top of language lessons and law lessons and public appearances. I’ve no time to be a good husband to anyone, which was supposed to make Peach an ideal choice of a wife.

I grunt to myself as I do my best to mop the mess of her dinner with a bath towel.

Which is doing nothing to calm the pulsing in my knob.

Her eyes—have a woman’s eyes ever held such a mix of brazen sass, undisguised interest, and palpable vulnerability?

Quite the guard dog, isn’t she? Manning Frey once said to me.

You’re too kind, Your Highness, I’d replied.

Yet I know a thing or two about protective natures. About love of family. About the lengths one will go to and the sacrifices one will make for the betterment of those who mean the most to them.

I finish with the dinner mess and stand, eyeing the heart-shaped mattress.

That will be most uncomfortable for sharing with another person.

Peach is correct. A simple complaint about a back ailment or snoring, and we could have the bed replaced. Or perhaps she should have a sleep abnormality. Insomnia. Sleep apnea. Narcolepsy.

However, the solution shall actually be much simpler.

Whoever thought putting a monarch’s bedroom in a tower was a good idea was a fool.

Anyone with a grudge and half the ingenuity Papaya Maloney possesses in just her navel could manufacture a weapon to damage the entire tower. There’s no secondary escape route.

And I also have no desire to live in a tasteless bedroom decorated wholly by the man who stole and nearly broke my grandfather’s kingdom.

It appears I do have some preferences for my living quarters after all. And whilst I detest the idea of making demands merely because of a title, I shall be moving our bedroom to a more appropriate location. With a more appropriately-sized bed.

Once I’ve cleaned the dinner mess as best I can without access to traditional cleaning tools, I email Leonie that I expect palace staff to move Her Majesty and myself to a safer location within the apartment tomorrow.

And I feel like quite the pompous arse as I do so, but I believe it necessary for Peach’s comfort and my peace of mind.

That task complete, I pull up my text messages and hesitate only briefly before sending yet another note that still leaves me mildly uncomfortable.

For many reasons.

My phone rings almost instantly.

“Your Highness,” I say by way of greeting.

Habit, I fear.

“Your Majesty,” Manning Frey drawls. He’s almost picked up some American Southern in his accent, which should be quite comical, but little amuses me tonight. “How may I be of service?”

“I’ve a personal question, and I wish for Miss Gracie to not know I’ve asked.”

He chuckles. “Might as well hang up now. Troubles with the missus?”

The missus. America has had quite the impact on his vocabulary. I pick my words carefully as I inspect the sleeve of condoms I’ve discovered in the bedside drawer. “Our short courtship has left me without sufficient knowledge of her past.”

“You want me to ask Gracie why Peach is so very prickly.”

“It does seem a question I would not get a straight answer to were I to go directly to the source.” Yes, I’ve become a ninny, calling up my friends to gossip about what could possibly be going through the mind of a woman. “And as our marriage vows were so necessarily hasty…”

“Say no more, old chap.”

“Thank you, Your—”

“Viktor, if you complete that sentence, I shall be forced to tell Gracie why I’m inquiring about the prickly Peach.”

I hold the strip of condoms to the light, and—just as I suspected.

Pinholes.

Of course the palace staff wishes to not have a lack-of-heir problem again. Someone shall be sacked as soon as I discover the person responsible. And I doubt it will be the maid.

“Miss Gracie is already aware, isn’t she?” I say.

“She’s a quick study in royalty. She’s also not said a word. She wishes to not worry Joey. Or put you in danger, of course. She’s rather fond of you and would be put out if her sister should murder you in your sleep.”

“As would I,” I agree dryly.

“Is there anything else I can do to assist the kingdom of Amoria?”

“No, you’ve done more than enough already.”

“I wish you luck, my friend. Call again anytime. I’ll drop an email.”

We disconnect, and I continue to inspect the bedroom. There’s an open bottle of essential oils near the bed—undoubtedly pheromone-based—and several editions of various sexual position suggestion books under the nightstand.

But it’s that subtle, tangy scent of key lime pie and feminine arousal that’s keeping me hard as granite.

I know better than to become attracted to my wife.

But I’ve dedicated my life to the care and protection of others.

I don’t sleep with men more powerful than me anymore.

Someone has hurt her.

Someone has hurt her badly.

‘Tis in my nature to need to know who, and to right the wrong.

Even if my task is for a woman who will never appreciate it.